


Screech in E Minor

by CodenameMeretricious



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Humor, Sherlock's Violin, john just wants to sleep, john likes toast, sherlock won't shut up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:29:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CodenameMeretricious/pseuds/CodenameMeretricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been playing his violin since 4 in the morning. A "little domestic" ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Screech in E Minor

Coffee. Goddammit he needed coffee. More than anything else in the world John wanted gallons and gallons of coffee. Coffee and for that damned violin to stop its screeching. Four a.m. it had started. Four a.m. that first brush of bow and strings had woken him. Three hours later and the screeching hadn't stopped. He didn't recognize the tune – something fast and lively and loud. And on repeat.

He knew Sherlock played when he was thinking. He'd known before he even moved in. He also knew that the terms "day" and "night" could not be applied to Sherlock. The man seemed to move within his own system of time; completely unrelated to the position of the sun or the habitual motions of his flatmate. His exhausted flatmate.

"Screech in E Minor?" John asked. He trudged into the kitchen and set the kettle to boil. Instant would have to do for now as Sherlock had tossed out their entire supply of ground to make room for a new set of test tubes. Bastard.

Silence was all the reply he received over the disturbingly loud notes coming from the sitting room.

"Git." He leaned against the counter, watching Sherlock's back. He was facing the window again; it seemed to be his favorite spot to play. He was wearing the blue dressing gown, sleeves rolled back a bit, and John could see stripped pyjama bottoms beneath it. He had been surprised to learn that Sherlock even owned pyjamas. He'd assumed the man slept standing up during the scant times his body tricked him and managed to steal a few moments of shut eye. It seemed now that Sherlock prepared for sleep, but never fully partook in it.

The kettle boiled, John barely hearing it over the mind-numbing twenty-fourth rendition Sherlock was just finishing up. The notes slowed a bit, softening just before the end. John grimaced, waiting for the twenty-fifth version. He was greeted with blessed silence.

"Tulips."

"What?" John asked. He looked up, waiting for the explanation, intrigued despite himself.

"The zookeeper must have smuggled it in with tulips. Obvious." With this, Sherlock spun around, lovingly replacing his Stradivarius and bow to their case. John made a mental note to buy the most complicated lock and chain he could find, wrap them around the case, and bury the lot of it beneath the Thames.

"Of course," John said. He breathed out heavily through his nose and turned to get the milk. It wouldn't do any good to start berating Sherlock if he had in fact solved the case. No, he would wait until after Lestrade had been informed of the murderer to strangle his flatmate.

He heard the soft click of Sherlock's phone as he sent the text. There. Now John could quietly murder Sherlock and not feel guilty that the zookeeper got away with it.

"You haven't slept."

"Good deduction," John said. He stirred his coffee more vigorously than needed.

"We didn't return until well past two in the morning, I didn't expect to see you until the afternoon," Sherlock said. He rustled through the mountain of papers on his desk before opening his laptop. His movements weren't sluggish. He didn't have dark circles under his eyes. Hell, he seemed just as bright eyed and bushy as he would be after eight blissful hours of rest. Yes, John was definitely going to kill him.

"I've got a shift at the surgery. Sarah phoned."

The meaning of that sentence would have been obvious enough to any other human being. Hell, a monkey could have figured out the implication from John's tone alone, but not Sherlock. No. John could spell it out and there would still be no effect. Sherlock didn't sleep and though he seemed to accept it as a weakness and inevitability in John, he couldn't be arsed to fathom why John would be irritated at having it cut severely short. More time for brainwork; deductions. Sleeping? Sleeping's boring.

"So you didn't sleep at all then," John said. He bit his lip, watching Sherlock start furiously tapping away at his keyboard. He had to admit, he was still slightly envious of that particular skill.

"Why would I?"

John didn't answer. He made toast. He thought of thirty different places to hide a body. He couldn't start this now. Later, he'd have to do it later. After his shift. After he'd taken a twelve-hour nap. If he did it now, he'd have to spend at least an hour hiding evidence and he didn't need Sarah to be angry with him. Not if he planned on using her lilo at any point in the future. But then again, he wouldn't need it. Not if he had the entire flat to himself.

He nearly jumped as Sherlock suddenly appeared behind him. Did the man apparate? He really needed to stop doing that; mysteriously showing up without making a sound or showing any sign of movement.

"Seriously, did you train with Ra's al Ghul or something?" John muttered.

"Who?" Sherlock asked.

"Noth—" he stopped, his jaw flexing. He looked at Sherlock who was now glancing at his microscope and nibbling at the piece of John's toast he'd just snatched. Though a tiny part of him was glad to see Sherlock eating, that part was quickly beaten to a pulp by the Hulk-sized anger that surged through him. "It's not polite to steal other people's food," he said through clenched teeth.

"Why? You hardly need the calories," Sherlock said. He didn't look up from the microscope. He took another bite of toast. John counted the steps to his bedroom drawer where the unregistered gun rested. 23. 23 steps, 30 seconds max. 30 seconds and he'd have an entire flat to himself and could eat toast with jam the whole day.

"Because, you inconsiderate arsehole, it's my toast and I am entitled to it. I do the shopping. I make sure we have the money to pay for it. I made it therefore I get to eat it. It. Is. My. Toast."

"John, a piece of bread and jam is hardly something to get worked up about. Besides, I thought you enjoy it when I concede that food is sometimes a necessity." The calm, arrogant tone Sherlock spoke with was, without a doubt, one of the most annoying sounds John had ever heard in his entire life.

"You prick. You really don't care about anyone other than yourself, do you? You can't be arsed to heed possession law—"

"Toast is hardly covered by law."

"—or to think for one tiny moment that maybe, since you'd been up chasing suspects across London half the night with your flatmate, that said flatmate might be tired and appreciate a bit of sleep. No, you'd rather start playing your violin at four in the morning. Who the hell cares about John? John doesn't need sleep. John won't be bothered if I play the same damn song twenty four times in a row as loud as I possibly can—"

"The song called for forte."

"—Shut up! " He was shaking now and half-sitting half-standing over his chair, fists clenched in front of him on the scarred table. Sherlock had looked up from his microscope as he finished the last few bites of John's toast. He blinked, one eyebrow raised. "I know you're a machine, Sherlock. But the rest of us aren't. We can't stay awake just because we want to. We can't stop going to work because it's boring." His voice was rising. No doubt Mrs. Hudson would soon appear at the door, wondering if they were having another "little domestic."

"So find a less boring job."

"I can't find another job! My job is taking care of you. Making sure you eat and pay the bills and don't store thumbs in the fridge past Molly's given expiration date. My job is to make sure you don't blow yourself up or cause a world war—God knows what Mycroft would do to me if you did. No, my job now is to babysit you because that's what you damn well are, Sherlock, a child. You have no consideration for others, no concept of what it's like to live with you. Do you know you played your violin for three hours straight? Do you know that I had to sit there listening to it? Why? Why would you play the same song for three hours as loud as you possibly can? And what's worse—"

"I was thinking."

"—what's worse, is that you completely disregard the priority of food over science experiments. Every ounce of ground coffee was chucked out so I'm left with cheap shit instant. And I can't even enjoy two pieces of toast. Toast, Sherlock. Without you waltzing in like there's absolutely nothing wrong with stealing other people's things. Especially before they have to put in eight hours at a surgery, helping people, which requires them to be awake, with only two hours of sleep because somebody was playing their goddamn violin all night!" John gulped in a breath, nearly panting with the effort of his rant. He was now running late, still under caffeinated, and more furious than he was before due to the unfazed expression on Sherlock's face.

"I'm confused," Sherlock said after a moment.

"What could you possibly be confused about? You're a bloody genius, as you've pointed out so many times before," John snarled between breaths.

"Are you more upset about the violin or the toast?"

"It's not about the fucking toast!" John shouted. He closed his eyes, gripping the edge of the table as he stood up, trying desperately not to punch his flatmate in the face. Oh, he wouldn't just kill him. He'd murder the shit out of him.

"But you seemed rather upset about it…"

"Did I? Did I really?" John nearly started laughing.

"Yes…"

John opened his eyes to find Sherlock watching him warily. The blue eyes darted rapidly from side to side, no doubt trying to scan John's brain to determine why he'd started screaming at seven in the morning.

"Rhetorical, Sherlock."

"Ah."

The little kitchen went silent as John forced himself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Calm. Centered. Focused.

"But you are actually angry about the toast."

A knife. He'd use a knife.

"And the violin. You're angry about both."

"I'm angry about…" John paused. He was angry about the violin, there was no doubt there. And he was furious about the toast. But he knew those really weren't such a big deal. Sherlock did play when he was thinking and it always helped them find the murderer, or at least nudge them onto the murderer's trail. And he could easily make more toast. He really should be ecstatic that Sherlock had eaten on his own accord and John hadn't had to shove it down his throat. He knew all this and yet he was still livid, still shaking with anger, because it had happened so many times before.

"Ah, so you're not really angry with me."

"Of course I'm angry with you, you twat."

"But not really." Sherlock's face was smug. "I'm sure you've just worked it all out in that rather extraordinarily ordinary brain of yours and come to the conclusion that you're not really angry with me at all. You're angry that you can't be angry with me. That, even though you want to be, you logically can't condone it."

"I…"

"I've read a number of articles on social cues and interactions, John, and I'm more than capable of spotting the signs."

"Responding to them on the other hand…" John muttered.

"Oh, no point in responding. It only prolongs the interaction."

"Heaven forbid."

"I don't understand the reference," Sherlock said.

"Oh, for the love of—tell me, why am I not mad at you but rather mad at the fact that I cannot be mad at you?" John sighed. The fury that had fueled his tirade was fading and he felt drained. He knew the lack of sleep was a contributing factor and the anger briefly flared once more. He hated the way Sherlock could deflate him so quickly. If only the man couldn't prove his every theory with dozens of research papers it might just be possible to stay mad at him.

"Because you love me," Sherlock said.

"No I don't," John said quickly, eyes shooting up to his flatmate.

"Your feelings for me follow the basic chemical equation for what you insist upon calling love."

"No—"

"Considering your fascination with the subject, I've devoted quite a bit of time to research concerning the topic. There are many fascinating papers."

"That's completely different—" John's voice was rising once more.

"Romantic love, platonic. It all boils down to the same chemicals and reactions."

"What do you mean reactions? I do not—"

"You know what I mean," Sherlock said, waving him off. "You care about me. You care about what I do. What we do. You want me to drag you across London until two in the morning and play my violin if it helps me solve the puzzle."

"Catching murderers, yes. Violin at four a.m., no."

"You're lying."

"To you? Never."

"Sarcasm?"

"Yes."

"A common deflection technique."

"Is it?" John groaned.

"Yes actually."

"Rhetorical, Sherlock."

"Ah. I do seem to miss that one."

"So you're saying, in that twisted, disturbingly explicit way of yours, that I can't be angry because I like what we do?" John asked.

"Essentially, yes."

"Great. So, according to you, I can never be angry for the rest of my life."

"If you're working under the assumption that you never leave me, then yes." Sherlock paused, dropping his gaze and putting his hands behind his back. He bounced once on the balls of his feet and John realized that he was waiting. Waiting to see if John did actually plan on leaving him. With the exhaustion seeping through him and his dread of the day to come, the idea was appealing. But, as tired and upset as he was, John already knew the answer. And for such an incredibly smart man, Sherlock was rather daft.

"Then we'll say the H in my name stands for Happy," John said.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. "That would be lying."

"When have I ever lied to you, Sherlock?" John said, sitting back down and pulling the paper toward him.

"Most recently, about fourteen minutes ago—oh. Sarcasm?"

"You're getting better."

 

It was twenty minutes and a hot shower later when John finally let the rest of his anger go. He knew the anger would be back. Knew that Sherlock would do some other inane thing that would set John off. But, as Sherlock had pointed out, John had no intention of leaving and holding onto every last thing that Sherlock did to make him angry would serve no purpose whatsoever so he'd done the best he could to just let it go.

Now, though, he was already fifteen minutes late, still hungry, and had only managed half his cup of coffee before it had gone cold. He paused in the kitchen, grabbing his keys off the countertop. Sherlock was still in the sitting room, staring at a map he'd pinned to the wall and muttering to himself. John shook his head and turned to go, noticing a plate of toast and jam sitting beside a thermos. He shook his head and smiled at the small rush of affection and amusement that accompanied the gesture. He eagerly started in on the toast—still warm and no doubt perfectly timed to be so—but paused before reaching for the coffee. The last time Sherlock had made him a cup he'd been testing for drugged sugar. John took a cautious sip. Just milk. He looked back at his seemingly oblivious flatmate, knowing that his reactions were no doubt being catalogued for future reference. He closed the thermos, tucked it under his arm, and headed for the stairs, making sure to smile before he was out of sight.


End file.
